Crimson
by Squinterian
Summary: A look at the days of the Squad candidacy. Multi-chapter work that will likely remain in progress for a long time.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

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* * *

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Chapter Ten and Six:

Of Lord Mi'ihen and the Forming of the Crusaders

Seven and half centuries ago there lived a Great Warrior, the greatest of all time after the Unsurpassable Lord Zaon, who along with Revered Lady Yunalesca gave his life to bring the First Calm. The name of this warrior was Lord Mi'ihen. He was known as a Slayer of Behemoths, renowned in battle for his skill and fearlessness, and there was no match for him to be found in all of Spira. Statues in his honour still stand on the Mi'ihen Highroad, which has been laid along the route he took for the Great Journey of Redemption that he made through the treacherous paths in the Wilderness, to seek Yevon's Blessing. Such was his wisdom that we revere him to this day.

But, above all, Lord Mi'ihen is remembered as the founder of Crimson Blades, that were later to become known as the Crusaders.

For Lord Mi'ihen had a Vision, and out of this Vision the Crimson Blades were born. He called to him the mightiest of warriors from all around Spira, and every last one rallied to the Greater Cause he envisioned. Under Lord Mi'ihen's banner, they fought fiends and Sinspawn, protecting Spira's many towns and cities, as well as those who could not defend themselves. And victorious they were; though many fell in the fields of battle, more lives were spared than lost through their actions. Numerous records still praise their Glory and Valour, and many a Lied has been written and a Song has been sung in their honour, for they were truly Great Warriors.

As the Blades' fame and prowess swiftly grew so did their numbers. Soon they spanned the entirety of Spira, and neither town nor village was lacking of defenders. Where the people of Spira had only had the Holy Summoners to turn to in times of Grievance and Crisis, they now could call on these seasoned Warriors that willingly gave their lives in Yevon's name. For though the could perform no Sending, made they certain that neither they must.

Yet though the Blades were renowned far and wide for their accomplishments, there were those among their numbers who were reckless. Many became blinded by their own prowess and turned away from the Sacred Teachings, seeking to further their own ends instead. Turning their backs to Yevon's Wisdom, they forgot the Grave Nature of their Duty and wished to seek the Spoils of War instead.

Seeing this frightful change in his charge, Lord Mi'ihen was greatly distressed. A man of True Faith he was, so he told the Crimson Blades to wait for him, and set out on foot for the Great Journey to set right this wrong. A hundred days and a hundred nights he walked, they say, barely stopping to rest, until he stood before the Gates of Holy Bevelle. And there he cried out:

"O, Great Maesters, Revered Elders, I have made a mistake. Now I seek to right it, and I come to beg for Your Forgiveness and to yield to Your Wise Guidance!"

Upon seeing that he was indeed of True Faith, the Great Maesters ordered that the Gates of Bevelle to be opened and Lord Mi'ihen be allowed to enter. And into the Holy Chambers of Yevon he walked, and his soul trembled in reverence, as was Good and Proper. And there he pledged himself to the Great Maesters, that upon his Faith and Honour should no warrior of Crimson Blades, during or after his time, ever again rise against the Sacred Teachings.

Moved by Lord Mi'ihen's sincerity and troubled by his distress, the Great Maesters sought counsel among each other. Three days and three nights they considered, before they emerged from their Chambers, bringing their Wisdom to the faithful Mi'ihen. Unwilling to abandon a Man of True Faith to such a trial, the Great Maesters told him that they would spread their Wings of Protection over the Crimson Blades, so that not one of them would ever again become lost from the Light of Yevon's Sacred Teachings.

Upon learning that such Grace had befallen him, Lord Mi'ihen sank to his knees and cried his gratitude:

"Of Your Greatness I had heard, but never could I portray it in my Mind's Eye in such a way that gave it Justice, for You are Truly the Wisest among Men! My debt to You shall be Ever-Lasting!"

Thus came the Crimson Blades to be Under Yevon's Guiding Wing, and in honour of the Unswaying Courage with which they faced their Daunting Task, were they later to become known as Crusaders, or those who wage a Holy War to bring the Light of Yevon to all of Spira. Now, as the Maesters in their Boundless Wisdom watch over them and send their loyal Acolytes to guide them, shall they never again stray –

And then there was a large greasy stain that overlapped the last lines on the page, blurring the letters beyond recognition. What it was and how it had ended up there was impossible to tell, but if you brought the page close enough and sniffed at it, you could detect the distinct smell of Bevellian Smoked Grain - a brand of sausage that was known for coming with enough grease to soak through six layers of stiff paper wrappings.

Snorting, Maester Kinoc flicked the book shut. He was familiar with the passage – familiar, in fact, to the degree where he could have recited it in his sleep without much effort. Still, he enjoyed reading it every now and then. It was a welcome reminder of how things were supposed to be, and definitely a more pleasurable account than the ones concerning the current state of the Crusaders.

Whatever the book said, it was true that the founder of the Crusaders had not been the most devout Yevonite in existence. After all, this particular account had been written for the less enlightened. Mi'ihen had more likely been a pig-headed fool and more trouble than he was worth than a co-operative pushover. But either way, he'd at least had the decency of acknowledging the temples' power. That was a lot more than could be said of his successors. They were far too busy to spare time for showing respect even where it was long overdue, as they were all running around in circles like berserk chocobos, coming up with dozens of crazy plans and climbing over each other to get to be the first in the front line to carry them out. The last one in their long line of brilliant strokes had almost succeeded in landing Sin in the Blitz city of Luca. Admirable indeed.

Well, smart people did not go chasing Sin all over Spira in the first place – they joined the Warrior Monks or the priesthood. Which was why Kinoc himself was a Maester of Yevon and not one of the mangled corpses buried under the rubble on some backwater beach. He'd worked hard to get where he was, and what he had he'd most certainly earned. The life of a Maester was good by all definitions.

The only problems he had were connected to the Crusaders. Being the head of Yevon's military wing, he was directly in charge of two separate organisations – one of which unfortunately happened to be the Crusaders. From the Warrior Monks, he'd never had a _tenth _of the trouble the Crusaders caused every single month. Being associated with them was a disgrace.

And though Kinoc had no proof yet, he was willing to bet a considerable sum of money that the other Maesters were beginning to regard him with less respect than he was willing to see on their faces. He had seen Grand Maester Mika's eyes flash when he thought Kinoc wasn't paying attention. Mika hid it well, but he could tell – the old codger was thinking that since he couldn't even handle a bunch of sword-waving fools, he would not be much of a stumbling stone if and when his removal became desirable. And Kinoc knew he was too smart to be allowed to remain where he was if he couldn't hold the position himself.

Thinking about it usually gave him a heartburn.

While Mi'ihen had wisely succumbed to the temples' judgement, these Crusader morons seemed to be practically immune to any form of control. Their organisation was sprinkled all over Spira, operating mostly as independent chapters that were impossible to keep in line. And though they were supposed to have some sort of a command structure, trying to gain a firm hold of it was like trying to grasp a trickle of water. The Captains and Commanders of the chapters had the highly annoying habit of partaking operations themselves, with the result that every time he asked for a report from a specific chapter he found himself staring at a new face. It infuriated him to no end, because the problem kept repeating itself over and over.

But that didn't mean it was unsolvable.

Wen Kinoc was not a Maester of Yevon for nothing. He had struggled his way up the steps, sucking up to someone here, stabbing someone in the back there. He knew how to hoard power to himself.

The trick was to do it discreetly.

He picked up and opened the soiled book, turning the pages until he found the part he had been reading. Settling back in his chair, his eyes flickered to the last intelligible line on the page, right above the sausage grease stain.

Now, as the Maesters in their Boundless Wisdom watch over them and send their loyal Acolytes to guide them, shall they never again stray…

* * *

Author's notes: I've been turning the thought of writing a longer fic in my head for a while. If that turns out to actually happen, this will be - like its name suggests - the prologue for it. Confusing start? 


	2. I Stale and Pissed

Chapter 1

_Stale and Pissed_

* * *

The ale was stale. Hatefully stale. He was very much hating the ale right now.

He wasn't exactly a person to do a lot of hating, but the occasion seemed to call for it. Going through all that trouble—

A passer-by accidentally kicked the leg of his stool and he grabbed the edge of the counter to keep himself upright, losing track of his thought.

The pub was pretty stuffed. And stuffy. Damn, but hadn't the barkeeper ever heard of opening the windows and airing the place before letting in the customers and settling down to business for the night? He sent a slightly unfocused glare in the direction of the man's back. Yes, the barkeep had his back to the customers. Wiping the glasses or whatever. Damn thoughtless of him.

"Hey," he called out, shaking his glass so that the rocks in it clinked. "Gemme another one!"

Looking considerably peeved, the barkeep – a rather large man, one might add – turned to scowl at him. He dug a bottle from under the counter, an opener from the pocket of his apron, slammed them both on the counter, and glared at him until he had coughed up the required amount of coins. Then, swiping them up and stuffing them into another pocket – after counting them one by one, the cheap bastard – the barkeep fished out his rag and returned his attention to the dusty glasses.

He popped the cork, which went rolling down over the counter's edge and bounced away on the floor, and poured the dark, maroonish liquid into his glass. Judging by the smell, it was just as bad as the previous one. But hey, not much of anything else had gone well today, either – and to be honest, at this point, all he really cared about was that the stuff would go down, stay down, and get him drunk.

"… so, my cousin got a post in the city guard a few weeks back," someone was saying in the other end of the counter. "No heathen scum's getting past him, that's for sure—"

What had it been that his pop had used to say? '_Gippal, never get drunk in a bar full of Yevonites'_?

Bloody _friggin'_ Yevonites.

He took a swig from his glass and grimaced at the taste. Yep, no improvement there.

It all boiled down to Yevonites. Everything kept getting stuck to those damned Yevonites. Every damn time. He wasn't a spiteful person by nature, but tonight, he just wasn't feeling very understanding. By now, he had gone through no less than six – _six _– enrolment offices for Crusaders, and countless of unofficial conversations. And every time, he got the same damn response.

Hell, Crusaders weren't _supposed_ to be zealots. He knew that because he'd helped haul weapons on a ship, damn _machina weapons_, one year ago, to be taken to the Crusaders. He'd thought that they had at least an ounce of sense. More than an ounce, in fact. And decency, too. Going off to face Sin, using the best weaponry they could find regardless of temple sanctions, protecting the citizens of Spira and trying to find alternatives to the endless chain of summoners' sacrifices... He'd admired them. Had wanted to be one of them.

But apparently, the Al Bhed weren't... _eligible_.

The word kept ringing in his head, bouncing off the insides of his skull, boing, boing, boing, like one of those elastic balls his sister's children played with all the time. Wasn't it part of the credo of the Crusaders that they accepted anyone willing? What a load of crap. If you happened to be Al Bhed, that is.

Today had been yet another fantastic example of an Al Bhed's life in Spira. To begin with, he'd almost got run over by a troupe of chocobo riders on the highroad – _free drinks for the one who bowls over the heathen!_ – and then he'd fallen down the stairs after stepping on a loose brick and landed face first on the pavement at its foot, his bag on his head. He'd cursed himself heartily for the moment of insight that had made him disassemble his rifle and pack it in there. It was _heavy_. Shaking off the bunch of kids snickering at him, he'd made his way into the Luca city, where he'd got lost in a suburb where no one wanted to talk to him, regardless of how many notches he turned up his charm – or maybe it had been _because_ of that? – then thrown out of a store for suggesting that the cooling system needed a fix, and finally apprehended by the Crusaders on guard duty after getting into a yelling contest with merchant who thought he'd been trying to steal something. For some reason, "Hey, I was looking for you guys – I'm here to enlist," hadn't seemed to make a very favourable impression on them.

The visit in the office for enrolment was something he was hoping to forget. The woman running the enlisting had seemed almost sympathetic to his plight… until she had said that word, that damn word again.

He had been close, frighteningly close, to falling to his knees and begging. Maybe even promising to wear goggles all the time, to hide his eye. Not that _that_ would really have disguised him very effectively, but it had seemed almost like a valid option at that point. Sheer frustration did strange things to your head sometimes.

And then he'd ended up drunk. In a bar full of Yevonites.

It was _definitely not_ his day. So he had a pretty decent excuse to be feeling spiteful.

And the ale really _was_ darn hateful.

"Hey barkeep," he shot across the counter. "Where do you get this thinned-out engine oil from? Labelling stuff like this as ingestible should be made a capital offence."

* * *

The street kept tilting annoyingly to the side. Well, of course, it wasn't the _street_ that was doing the tilting but his brain, which was swimming in the beer – no, in that stuff which was just pretending to be beer – horrible thought – but due to the fact that his brain was swimming in that stuff, it created a very convincing illusion of the street tilting to the side. 

In addition, he was nurturing a bruised thigh – which hardly helped with the tilting – and in the morning, he would probably be sporting a spectacular black eye. Which was not a marvellous thing, considering that he only had one of them in use.

Still, he received some satisfaction from the knowledge that although he'd gone down and got thrown out in the end, he'd given a split lip and taken a tooth or two with him in the process. Getting to land a few punches on that apron-clad bastard had definitely been worth it. The man had been a royal pain the entire evening. Not to even _mention_ the stuff he served as ale.

* * *

It was too damn bright. He buried his face into the pillow, trying to block out the light that was etching its way in through his eyelids, no matter how tightly he squeezed them shut. It felt like a hrimthurs was beating its fists on his head, and, occasionally, on his stomach. Pound pound pound, jolt, pound pound, jolt. Pound, jolt. Jolt.

Seconds later, he shot out of the bed and stumbled into the small toilet, hand clapped over his mouth.

Gippal had never had a high tolerance for booze.

* * *

Breakfast was anything but inviting. Granted, it _looked _tempting enough, with loaves of bread straight from the bakery, hot bacon, and fresh fruit, served on a perfectly clean plate and complete with a jug full of clear, cool water. He just couldn't swallow _anything_ beside the water right now. So he kept pushing his not-very-cheap bacon across the plate, back and forth, and wondering, for something like the twentieth time already, how he had managed to land in such a damn expensive inn. Considering the state he had been in, he was surprised that the owner had actually let him through the door.

The waitress, who was making her way towards the kitchen, slowed down obviously when she got near his table. He glanced up and found her looking at him. She flashed him a wide smile, then flushed a deep beetroot red, looked down hastily and hurried away, almost knocking a chair over in the process.

Well, _someone_ had let him through the door. Perhaps his charm had not been completely disabled by this city and the series of misfortunes.

Or by the ale. Which spoke volumes in favour of his charm.

"… decent food," a voice from behind carried to his ears. When he'd entered, the only other occupants of the dining hall had been two men sitting at a table near the windows – a priest and a roughed-up looking warrior – so that must be one of them. Guessing by the gruffness of the voice, he guessed it was the latter.

"Yes, definitely," said another voice, whom he guessed was the priest. " 'Specially the fruits. Try the apple."

Spearing a slice of the apple on his fork, Gippal brought it up to his face and considered it carefully. His stomach was telling him no, but his money bag, which was getting worrisomely light, was telling him that he'd better.

He had been travelling for three months already, and his meagre stash of gil had dwindled alarmingly. Of course, he had saved wherever he could – slept out in the wilderness, traded work for food – but the fact remained that he _had_ to eat, and sleeping outside in some places would have meant that he could just as soon have donated his remaining gil to whomever it was that would be in charge of arranging his untimely funeral.

Maybe joining an organisation that was actively seeking trouble with Sin could be compared to having a death wish. Heck, being a summoner was the same as having a death wish – a good many Al Bhed thought so, anyway. But at least both of those would have been a far more meaningful – not to mention dignified – way to go than being nibbled to death in your sleep by a stray fiend.

Favouring the advice of his money bag over that of his stomach, he bit into the apple. If being nibbled to death by a fiend was a fate he was hoping to avoid, he'd better stop wasting his resources – and what else could the previous night be called but a tremendous waste?

At least it hadn't taken very much to get him drunk. The Al Bhed generally didn't drink a lot, and practically not at all when not safely stashed in the bowels of their Home. Losing control like that wasn't very wise when it was quite possible that the person sitting next to you was just as likely try to stab you as to buy you another drink.

Then again, Gippal did not label himself as a wise person. But he didn't really drink, either, because he was always left with a terrible hangover. It was only under the direst circumstances that he ever managed to convince himself that suffering the consequences was worthwhile. In retrospect, by a rule, he failed to remember why he had been so convinced that it would be such a good idea, because he was always left with the same damn trouble he'd started with, only with additional nausea… and occasionally further trouble, caused by the acute loss of rational thought.

Like now. The waitress was peering at him from the kitchen, wearing a look that clearly signified that she wanted something of him.

Whatever he'd told her, he really hoped it couldn't be deciphered as any sort of a promise.

He dropped the fork and leaned his head on his hands, massaging his temples. The brow over his good eye hurt like hell when he touched it. He had been damn lucky that no one else had dared to get in the way when the barkeep was dealing with him. Otherwise he'd be sporting a lot more than a couple of bruises.

"What have you been up to lately?" asked the priest behind him. "Same old?"

"Pretty much."

"Ever get tired of it?"

_Hell yes_, Gippal thought.

"A bit," agreed the warrior, though with considerably less vehemence than Gippal did.

"Well, you ever thought of doing something else?"

Yeah, like going back to Home and admitting failure. He didn't want to even think about it. Everyone had thought he was mad enough to actually go for it. He didn't want to speculate how they'd react if he went back, saying he hadn't been admitted.

"Something else what?"

"Well, I've got the scoop – word travels around faster than you'd think. It seems that they're going to establish some sort of an elite fighting force. Maybe you'd want to try out for it."

Elite fighting force? Like the Crusaders? Well, that sounded pretty good and everything, but what was the damn point?

"Well, I bet they have plenty enough warrior monks in Bevelle alone to fill the positions. Not much in the way of a chance for me, is there?" asked the warrior, much along the lines of Gippal's thinking.

"Well, _that's_ the scoop," said the priest, sounding pretty smug. "You see, they're casting the net quite far. _Anyone_ who has what it takes is admitted."

"You've got to be kidding," said the warrior disbelievingly. "There has to be _some_ selection guidelines. There _always_ are – even for Crusaders."

Bingo there.

"Well, I suppose there _will _be guidelines, but for the candidacy, anyone can enter. And I mean _anyone_. I heard the secretary aide talking with one of the abbots. He said they're not going to look into race, either."

As if. Gippal reached for the water jug.

"What do they expect, then? Ronso applying?"

"Nah—"

"Hypello?"

There was a snort of laughter, and Gippal had to suppress a snort of his own. He poured himself another glass of water.

"No…" confirmed the priest

"Certainly not the Al Bhed," said the warrior dismissively, making Gippal's shoulders tense. Damn, but these people were making him edgy. Al Bhed this, Al Bhed that. Not a single good word. It'd apparently be too big an insult on the temple folk if an Al Bhed went and died protecting them—

"Actually," said the priest, and it sounded almost like there was a hint of a smile in his voice, "that's what the abbot said. And the aide answered that if an Al Bhed would qualify, then he'd qualify."

Gippal had gone very, very still, his hand still clutching the handle of the jug, straining to be silent so as not to miss a word. It sounded too good to be true. Which it probably was. Still…

"Can't be," protested the warrior, predictably.

"The abbot threw a fit, I might add," said the priest, and his tone now held a definite amused quality. "Little he could do about it, though, like the aide said – orders from above and all that."

"Temples these days," grumbled the warrior. "How do you bear with it, anyway?"

The priest laughed. "With dignity, my friend. With dignity."

The two of them proceeded to discuss the abbot's fit in considerable detail. Gippal, who was still sitting in the same position, holding the water jug, couldn't have cared less. Normally, he would probably have enjoyed listening to an irreverent dissection of a Yevon priest any time, but the rest of the conversation he'd overheard stuck to his mind, making him oblivious to everything else. Although the topic of the abbot's fit couldn't have lasted longer than a couple of minutes, it felt like hours to him. He was already on the edge of his seat, about ready to shoot up and go ask the priest himself, when the warrior finally took the conversation in the direction Gippal wanted it to go.

"So then… where's the signup?"

* * *


	3. II Changes

Chapter 1 

_Changes_

* * *

Macalania.

The enchanted crystal forest was renowned for its beauty. Towering trees reached for the sky, growing higher than anywhere else in Spira. The air remained crisp and refreshing all through the year. The forest itself was always cool, and the area surrounding it was, even on the hottest of summer days, only pleasantly warm. It owed to the fact that the lake lying at the heart of the forest never thawed. A kind of supernatural coolness radiated from it, said to be caused by the fayth of Macalania temple. The phenomenon, and the forest itself, were quite remarkable. Numerous pieces of poetry had been written about both.

Baralai should know, because he had read quite a few. His mother, a great lover of poetry, had introduced him to her favourite works. A good many of them had featured the splendour of Macalania.

But that had been years ago, and not _all _aspects of the forest were so poetic. He was currently climbing over a fallen tree trunk – rather large one – boots threatening to slip on the icy bark. He had been forced to leave the forest road, as it had turned out to have been taken over by a gathering of chimaeras. One he could have handled, although it wouldn't have been an easy battle. Two would have been tough; he would have had to be very careful not to let either one get behind him, and keep his potions supply at hand all the time. And three chimaeras… that was virtually impossible.

Besides, he'd never been too fond of fighting.

Which inevitably led to the question that if this was the case, why was he now returning from Macalania temple, having travelled there for the sole purpose of signing up to train especially for battle?

He recalled the look on the officer's face, and the man's disbelieving tone.

_Are you sure you're up to this, kid?_

The remark had made his cheeks burn, and it still stung. But the truth was… he didn't know. There was a disturbingly good chance that he wasn't. He wasn't even sure if he really wanted to do this.

But when compared to his other options, it inarguably stood out as the best.

The scuffling and snorting sounds from the direction of the road had turned into thuds and roars, indicating that in lack of human prey, the chimaeras had turned on each other. Although it was unlikely that they'd pay him much mind now, the smart thing would be to avoid the road until he was completely out of their sight.

He slid down the trunk on the other side and landed heavily on the leaf-littered ground, catching his fall with one hand. The other was occupied with a battle staff – which caught on a branch as he dropped, spun around, and twisted his arm painfully in the process. He stood up and fastened the staff into its straps behind his back before flexing the muscles on his arm to assess the damage. Moving his wrist hurt, but fortunately not very much.

Still, he ought to be more careful, he thought as he continued to make his way through the underbrush. Fighting skills were crucial, but he was beginning to realise that there was also a number of other, potentially very harmful things that could happen out in the wilderness. You could twist your arm when your weapon caught on something, or trip on a rock or a tree root and sprain your ankle. You couldn't restock all that often and you might run out of something vital, such as healing supplies – especially since you had to carry all you needed with you. And fiends might sweep in at any time, from any direction.

He _had _travelled before, but never on his own. When he had been younger, his father had taken him along a couple of times when he'd gone to Guadosalam, and once even as far as to the Djose temple. All those times, though, they'd been part of a larger envoy party that was protected by an escort of warrior monks.

He remembered being very impressed by the way the warrior monks seemed to be calm, ordered, and in control all the time. They seemed to have a power to protect that even the priests could not match. It had been something that he'd striven for ever since.

Though it was by far the one closest to Bevelle, this was the first time Baralai had ever visited the temple in Macalania. The cold had almost caught him by surprise. He'd known to what to expect of snow and ice – in wintertime, it often snowed in Bevelle, too – but was unused to the way it crept through clothing and bit into the bones, chilling him thoroughly during the long walk from the shore of the lake to the temple.

Once he'd reached it, though, Macalania temple had been a splendid sight. It hovered right below the frozen surface of the lake, supported only by the ice that seemed to cradle it like mother's arms cradled an infant. He'd spent a while standing at the beginning of the temple road, simply staring. While the Bevelle temple – which he had seen many times – was quite remarkable in its grandeur, it seemed to shrink when in comparison to the delicate way the temple in Macalania bore itself, in perfect harmony with its surroundings while defying the very laws of nature.

He brought himself back to the present, shaking his head. No time to think about such things now. It was still a long way back home, and he would rather put some distance between himself and those chimaeras.

Granted, he had some battle training, but it had mostly been conducted within the city limits, either with other warrior monk trainees or with stationary targets – "dummies", as they were called. He _had _been in the forest before – quite often, in fact – but never for this long, and he usually hadn't wandered very far from the city limits.

Macalania Forest was, in some ways, his private place. It was where he went when he needed to have time with his thoughts, or when he just wanted to be alone and still have some open space around him. That was one of the very few things that were truly hard to come by in the city. He was lucky in the sense that his family lived close to the city's edge. He had been quite young when he had first found his own way to the other side of the walls.

Unfortunately, though, these trips outside the city always upset his mother. He'd lost count of all the times she had moaned about the dangerous fiends that lurked in the shadows of the trees and that were something to happen to him, his body might never even be found, robbing his parents of every chance for some kind of a peace of mind. He always found it a little ironic that she loved the poetry about the forest, but dreaded the thing itself.

When things came down to it, Baralai had spent his entire live within the confines of the city of Saint Bevelle. It was inarguably the grandest settlement upon the entire Spira, and the places you could go and the things you could do there seemed endless. Generations could lead their lives within the shelters of its walls, without once setting a foot outside.

Somehow, that wasn't enough.

Lately, he'd felt like the city was suffocating him. Although he could walk around the urbs for several days without seeing the same face twice, he somehow felt like all the people he met were … cast in the same mould. That was the only way he could describe it. Anywhere he went, it was like everyone else seemed to fit in perfectly with their surroundings. And it made him feel like he fit there less and less.

To say it was something that had occurred suddenly would have been untrue. He had been feeling a strange sort of a disquiet for years now. It had built up slowly with the passing of time, until it finally had grown big enough to be almost too much for him to bear. He was growing up, his life was moving forwards faster and faster – his father had even started to talk about how one of these days he would talk with someone about having Baralai promoted from the position of an acolyte, so that he could settle down on his own, establish a position, and start looking for a suitable bride.

He wasn't ready for that – for having his life laid out in front of him, carefully planned by someone else without him once having a say in it. He wasn't ready for any of it.

When he'd heard some his father's colleagues talking about this special squad one of the Maesters was going to establish, Baralai had made his decision. The fact that the training would be conducted somewhere far away from Bevelle may have been the biggest deciding factor.

Resolve hardening, Baralai squared his shoulders and walked faster. The sooner he would reach the city, the sooner he could leave again. It was starting to be the prime time.

The only thing he wasn't looking forward to was telling his parents.

* * *


	4. III Never Pass a Chance

Chapter 3 

_Never Pass a Chance_

_

* * *

_

Name, length, weight…

She stood in the middle of the oval room, feeling uncomfortable under the scrutiny. Granted, the monk who was sitting behind the massive, strangely glittering desk, asking questions and making notes, was not looking at her. He was too busy filling in the papers. But the other two people in the room were. She'd barely caught a glimpse of them when she'd entered, and therefore couldn't really form any kind of an opinion of them. They were just two blurs of colour on her left and right, and she'd be damned if she'd turn to look at them.

"Age?" asked the man behind the desk

"Sixteen." She tensed, expecting trouble. The blur on her right shifted, and she thought she could hear a snort. The monk who was interviewing her looked away from the paperwork for the first time since she had arrived. He sized her up and narrowed his eyes. She looked right back, unblinking, struggling not to let her anxiety show. He'd take it as a sign of guilt, and then there'd be no way to convince him that she was, in fact, telling the truth.

Her eyes had almost started to water before he turned his attention back to his papers.

"Hometown?"

"Luca."

"Ah, the Blitz town," he commented, apparently without real interest. "Ever think of becoming a blitzer?"

Her father had been an attacker for the Luca Goers. Every time he played in a match, she and her mother had been in the front row, waving their banners and cheering themselves hoarse. He often took her to the locker room after the game, to meet the other players. They never seemed to tire of showing her replays of her favourite moves. But her fondest memory was from the time when she'd been seven. She had been sitting on her father's shoulders when the Goers were handed the League Cup, in front of a stadium full of people.

He had taught her how to handle the ball. She wasn't very fast or a very good shooter, but he had said that she had the makings of a fine defender. She'd used to practise hours on end, kicking or hitting the ball to see how many times she could bounce it off the wall before she missed, or diving under the long piers near her parents' house, to build up endurance.

"No."

The monk scribbled something into his papers. "Previous or existing positions and allegiances?"

She wondered for a moment what the question was supposed to mean. It wasn't as though there was much in the way of choice. Crusaders, Warrior Monks, priesthood? Perhaps it was simply about whether or not she had any other jobs to hold her down. "None."

"Experience?"

The mother of a friend of hers had been a professional Blitz recorder. She'd recorded several official matches, and when the friend of her daughter's had been curious, she'd offered to show her how a sphere recorder worked. She had got the full treatment, mainly because every time the woman stopped talking, she'd had another question waiting. She suspected that some of the tips she'd been given could be called professional secrets.

That spur-of-the-moment documentary she and her friend had shot would have been unlikely to convince anyone of their budding talents, but the problem had been more with the content than with a lack of technical knowledge. At least, until the point when a bit of wood got stuck in the control panel and splintered when they tried to get it out. Fortunately, her friend's mother hadn't been terribly angry. For terribly long, anyway.

"Tutored by a professional. No official assignments, but some personal projects."

"If you were given a recorder now, could you use it?"

"Yes."

"Very well," said the monk. "Next of kin?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

Looking faintly annoyed, he proceeded to explain in a falsely patient voice. "In case of emergency, whom do we contact?"

The obvious choice would have been her grandmother, also living in Luca. But were she to hear that something had happened to her, she was likely to suffer heart failure on the spot.

"No one."

"Is that so?" He looked up again, this time bemusedly. When she didn't answer, he wrote it down, seemingly satisfied. "Why are you applying for this position?"

Because there had been a more-than-two-metres-tall wall of a guard standing at the entrance of the room in which people signed up for the squad itself. Not that that would have been a problem, if not for the fact that the guard refused to be convinced that she was qualified, and that taking on someone two or three times her size was simply beyond her ability.

And because when she had been kicking at the snow outside the temple, trying to swallow her bitter disappointment and cursing the fate and her abominable luck, she'd heard a passer-by say that they were interviewing recorders for the squad in another room further down the hall.

She shrugged. "Looking for some challenge."

"I see. Good." After some final scribbling, the monk sat up straight and picked up the papers, letting their edges drop against the table so that they arranged themselves into a neat pile in his hands. Then he fixed her with a sharp gaze. "One last question."

She tried hard to remain calm. She'd done well enough so far, so it would be pretty embarrassing to start stuttering at this point. But when framed like that, the last question_ had_ an innate way of inciting discomfiture before she'd even heard it.

"Yes?"

"How committed will you be to your duties?"

She had guessed right. That one had to be the decisive question. Whether or not she got selected probably hung most heavily on what she answered to this one. It would be better to take her time, because if it _was_ the decisive one, they wouldn't dock points for not spitting something out the moment she heard it; they'd probably _award_ her points for thinking about it.

The right answer was obvious. Delivering it in a package they would appreciate was the problem.

Because she sure as hell wasn't going to miss this chance.

"_Very_," she said, looking him squarely in the eye.

For some reason, it seemed like for a moment, everything paused. The monk held her gaze for a while, as though testing her. Then he nodded. "Good."

He rose from the seat and walked to a wide, towering cabinet, which stood open at the very end of the room, and picked up another stack of papers. He turned back to her, flicking slowly through them before handing the stack to her. "You'll need these."

She accepted the papers uncertainly. _Need those?_ For what? Having seen little effect, her determination had somehow curled into itself and vanished.

"Those files contain a description of your duties," the monk went on, oblivious to her confusion. "South of Bevelle, there is a small camp by the shore, distinguished by the same banner you'll find in those files, along with a map of the location. In the camp, you'll find an official to whom you'll report for duty. He will ask for a letter of validation. You'll find that disclosed here as well." He gestured at the stack of paper.

Her brain finally caught on. "Does that mean I have the job?"

At this, the monk smiled. It was not the nicest of smiles – somehow, it reminded her of a bucktoothed lupine – but it was enough to make her heart skip a beat. "Yes," he affirmed. "You're to report in within one week. You'll be filled in on the rest at the campsite. Dismissed." He returned to his seat behind the desk.

Clutching the papers in her hand, she turned around and headed for the door. She was dazed enough to forget even to steal a look at the two other persons on her way. Then she was standing outside in the hall, the Hymn of the Fayth echoing in her ears.

She'd made it. She was in. Maybe it wasn't the same as being accepted for the squad itself, but she would get to do something useful and important, something she had the skills for – perhaps even something _better_ than being in the squad.

She finally had a chance to prove herself.

The smile wouldn't stay away from her face as she walked past the door for the squad enrolment, her boots clanging on the floor with a strangely uplifting beat. It was hard to even feel very sorry for the blond guy in baggy pants who seemed to be having the same problem she'd had with that overgrown guard standing by the door.

* * *


End file.
